


The Trevelyan Lie

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3511703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being caught up in the machinations of the blood mage, Jowan, Daire Amell is offered a reprieve at the hands of a foreign stranger. Though the young mage is granted a new identity, the shadow of the tower never fades away. After eleven years in the Ostwick Circle, Amell, now living as Maxwell Trevelyan, finds himself at Divine Justinia V's conclave as a representative of the remaining mages of Ostwick.  The cataclysmic outcome of the peace talks marks the false Trevelyan for life, leaving the fate of Thedas in his hands. Though his path is fraught with strife, there is no greater terror for the Inquisitor than facing Commander Cullen: the man who knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trevelyan Lie

Kinloch Hold, Lake Calenhad, Ferelden  
12 Cloudreach, 9:30 Dragon 

 

“The Grey Warden Duncan will not be arriving today or any day for the foreseeable future, Cullen,” snapped Greagoir as he crumpled a missive bearing an official seal in his fist. “What interest have you in the wardens, anyhow? You haven't dreamed up some fool notion that you might leave the Order to spend your days up to your knees in the blighted filth of the Deep Roads, have you?”

“Of course not, Knight Commander,” replied the timid young man. “It's just that I was hoping to hear news of the darkspawn threat to the south. My family is from Honnleath, a village not far north of the Wilds. I fear for their safety should these rumors of a fifth blight prove true.”

“You need not worry yourself about the blight, boy,” replied Greagoir in a dismissive huff. “In Duncan's last correspondence he wrote that a battalion of Grey Wardens would be joining forces with the Royal Army to make a stand against the horde. Apparently he got himself mixed up in some nasty business in Denerim's alienage just before he wrote to Irving for the last time. Something about a new recruit and needing to join the other wardens at Ostagar without delay. It''s a pity, really. I'd have preferred the company of a Grey Warden to the guest Irving has agreed to host in his absence.”

“What guest, Knight Commander?” Asked the young templar Though it was not rare for the Knight Commander to become agitated with the First Enchanter, Cullen thought it strange that he should be so upset at the prospect of the tower receiving a visitor. 

Greagoir sighed haughtily and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Irving has made arrangements to play host to First Enchanter Yves of the Ostwick Circle. At his back will be a dozen Marcher templars, all too eager to barge in, disrupt our training, and clutter our barracks.”

“I should think you would be happy to receive such guests, Ser,” said Cullen. “Surely you and the Knight Commander of the Ostwick Circle will have much to discuss. I imagine it would be a relief to speak to someone who understands the stresses of your position.”

“The Knight Commander,” began Greagoir in a tone that made the small hairs on Cullen's arms stand at attention. “Will not be accompanying the entourage from Ostwick. Nor will the Knight Captain. It would seem that the chain of command has become muddled in the Ostwick Circle. Their Knight Commander actually allowed for a handful of his own men to be lead by Yves himself.”

“That's unheard of,” breathed Cullen as his eyes grew wide. “Is it not against Chantry law for a mage to govern templars?”

“It would be if it were on any permanent basis,” grumbled Greagoir. “The Knight Commander of Ostwick issued a writ granting the Yves an accompaniment of templars to escort him on his journey to Ferelden. This writ also granted him the right to temporarily guide these templars in the absence of a high-ranking official of the Templar Order.

“I have always been aware that the Circles of the Free Marches are more lax with their containment of mages, but this is going too far. It won't do to have some self-important mage storm through our gates with a dozen templar pups chasing behind him and nipping at his heels. The mages of Lake Calenhad know their place and respect the Order, I won't allow that Orlesian bureaucrat to come into this tower and pollute their minds.”

“Orlesian?” Repeated Cullen. “I thought this man was from the Free Marches.”

“Yves has served as the First Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle for well over a decade now, but he hails from Orlais. I had the misfortune of meeting the man when I found myself in Val Royeaux on business for the order about seven years ago. It was quite evident that he looked on myself and my comrades as little more than Ferelden mutts. I knew then that he lacked any semblance of respect for the Order, but I could at least take comfort in knowing that he was not my charge and that there was an ocean between us,” Greagoir ended his rant panting and red-faced. Cullen watched the pulsating vein in his temple as it swelled and contracted with the man's heated breaths.

“A First Enchanter can hardly afford to be away from his Circle for long,” Cullen pointed out. ”What harm can this mage bring upon the Circle in a brief stay?”

“Yves was vague about the intended duration of his stay, which brings me to another matter,” answered Greagoir as a somber expression washed away the rage on his face. “Daire Amell . I refuse to oversee a harrowing with foreign forces present in the tower. He will face his trial tonight. Yves will arrive on the morrow and the last thing we need is for him to return to the Free Marches with tales of a failed harrowing. I won't give that man any grounds to insult the competency of our templars.”

“Knight Commander,” protested Cullen. “The Amell harrowing has already been scheduled for next week. Have you spoken to Irving about this?”

“I do not need permission from the First Enchanter,” snapped Greagoir. “Harrowings are templar business and if Irving has anything to say about it, I will remind him of his place in this tower. It is his responsibility to oversee the teaching of his mages and it is my responsibility to test their resolve. I cannot know whether or not Yves and his templars will still be in the tower this time next week and so the harrowing will take place tonight, when I know for certain we will be free and clear of their rabble.

“At midnight tonight, you and a comrade will rouse Amell from his sleep and escort him to the harrowing chamber. I will settle things with Irving and we will both stand ready to commence the ritual. Go now and rest. You will need your strength of body and mind this night, for if the young man should fall under demonic influence, it will be your blade that strikes him down.”

Cullen stared wide-eyed at his commanding officer. “M-Me? You mean you want me to kill him?”

“Yes. Should he become an abomination, I shall task you with slaying him, Cullen.”

“But, why? Surely, you have more experience against abominations than myself.”

“Of course I have experience with abominations. That is precisely why the burden falls to you. 'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.' This is what the Chant of Light teaches us. As a templar, you must learn to stand before monstrosities with a steel heart and a steady hand. Should the mage become an abomination, killing him will change you, teach you to make hard decisions in times of peril. This is your chance to stand before your enemy and refuse to yield. Do you understand?”

Cullen's heart raced in his chest and his skin grew damp and clammy. A sickly feeling ate at him and his insides churned maddeningly.. Although he felt as if he might faint, he expended all of his resolve to stand in place and nod in agreement at his Knight-Commander. “Yes, ser.”

***********************************************************************************

Cullen caressed the door to the male apprentice quarters so that it turned quietly on its hinges and slid open to reveal the room swathed in full darkness. The templar assigned to accompany him in this task was a bit older and had undoubtedly seen an abomination or two in his time. Cullen jumped at the touch of the older man as he was nudged forward into the lightless chamber. 

The young templar scuffled rather clumsily and loudly against the floor. He stopped dead and his eyes darted nervously to every corner of the room. His comrade stepped in behind him, brandishing a torch that burned dimly, giving off just enough light that the templars might identify their mark.

Cullen took ginger steps through the blackness as he turned over each bed with his eyes. As he moved through the room, he had an eerie feeling that he was being watched. Were the mages lying awake and following him with their eyes? Did they wait to see who would be taken, like sheep waiting to see which of their brethren would be chosen for the slaughter?

'Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,' Cullen repeated over and over in his mind. He was not imagining the stares. He now recognized pairs of orbs,shining dimly in the darkness all around him. The glowing eyes of the elven apprentices followed his every move.

Fear gripped at Cullen's heart and he stopped dead in his tracks. The wild eyes of the elves seemed demonic and damning in the low light. Their leers burned with judgment and he could not help but quake under the weight of their silent accusations. Cullen was a good templar. He joined the Order to protect mages and common folk alike from the dangers of magic. He did not take pleasure in this occasion. It was necessary. It was for their own safety. Why did they look at him so?

“Cullen,” came a hiss from somewhere in the black. Cullen's breathing was audible and out of control. He turned frantically searching for the voice when it beckoned again, “Cullen.”

Finally, Cullen's eyes came upon the torch of his fellow templar. The man gestured for him to come closer. Cullen shakily joined the older templar. They stood before a rickety bunk bed in the center of the room. On the top bunk, Cullen caught a glimpse of unkempt oily hair.

Cullen's gaze traveled down to the lower bed and he jolted slightly when he locked eyes with two crystalline irises so intensely saturated with aquamarine that they nearly glowed like those of the elves. Those eyes locked with Cullen's and did not waiver. Cullen and the boy regarded each other for a long moment. Cullen saw in those young eyes a knowing look that told of all the nights he had lain awake waiting for this time to come.

Without any further prompting from the templars, the boy peeled the moth-eaten covers off of himself to reveal a slim, yet defined frame wrapped in a patch-laden nightdress. The mage placed his bare feet on the floor and a tuft of straw-colored hair flopped in front of his face as he stood up. He blew the stray piece aside with an upward cast breath and moved swiftly for the door as the two templars followed suit. Cullen slid the door shut behind them as they exited the dormitory and he caught one last haunting glance at the room full of shining eyes, still looking on at the scene.

It seemed to Cullen that the mage had been expecting this. Amell wordlessly led the way through the library, up the winding halls, and into the harrowing chamber where Irving and Greagoir stood side by side, clad with identical expressions of grim solemnity. Geagoir motioned with his eyes for Cullen and his comrade to take their place with another templar at the far end of the room. Cullen moved swiftly to the other side of the room where he took his place to stand vigil as the ritual commenced. 

“'Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him,' thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin,” Greagoir boomed at the mage who simply stared back with those piercing eyes that stood out from behind dark circles painted on a pale, ruddy complexion. “Your magic is a gift, but it is also a curse, for demons of the dream realm, the fade, are drawn to you and seek to use you as a gateway into this world.”

“This is why the harrowing exists,” said Irving as he approached his apprentice. “The ritual sends you into the fade, and there you will face a demon, armed with only your will.”

“And if I cannot defeat this demon?” Asked the boy flatly.

“We templars will perform our duty,” answered Greagoir coldly. “You will die.”

Greagoir gestured to a basin at the dead center of the room. It was brimming with a glowing, pulsating, blue substance that called out to something in Cullen's blood. It was lyrium, there was no mistaking it.

“This is lyrium,” Greagoir told the mage what he undoubtedly already knew to be true. “The very essence of magic and your gateway into the fade.”

Irving took hold of his apprentice's arm as if to have a quick aside before the ritual's commencement, though the open chamber offered no privacy. Cullen saw it only as polite to cast his eyes down and allow the two to have what might be a final moment together. He heard Irving murmur words of encouragement to the mage. Overhearing this small kindness alleviated a small part of Cullen's guilt. At least the boy had someone who cared, someone who was there with him in the end, if this was to be his last night.

“The apprentice must face this test alone,” hissed Greagoir in a way that made Cullen twitch in discomfort. Cullen did not see the harm in allowing for a final moment between the two mages, but he would not dare to question the authority of his Knight-Commander.

The Amell boy carried himself with forced purpose as he approached the basin. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he gripped the sides of the bowl with his slender fingers and gazed down into the pool of lyrium. His bright eyes peered up over the basin and once again met Cullen's gaze. Cullen's heart stopped as the mage inhaled deeply of the lyrium, never breaking his intense stare.

The intensity of the gaze flickered and faded like a candle burning out. The boy stood up from the basin and took two staggering steps back as his eyelids fluttered, with eyelids dipping up and down like flower petals bobbing and contracting in the wind. Irving caught the boy as he fell backward and gently laid him down on the stone floor of the harrowing chamber. Greagoir gave the old man a stern look who glared in response and grudgingly moved away from his apprentice's unconscious form.

Greagoir motioned to the templar who had been present before Cullen and his companion who quickly stepped forward and approached the Knight-Commander. The templa handed Greagoir a large hourglass filled with sand that appeared pale blue in the cool lighting. Greagoir brandished the hourglass with one hand and kept the other at his waist, hovering just above his blade. Greagoir placed the hourglass near the boy's head with a thud that reverberated around the silent room. 

Then there was the waiting. Cullen's eyes peered from the boy to the sand, from the boy to the sand. Each falling particle took years to touch the bottom of the glass. Cullen's sweat beaded at the nape of his neck and felt cool and slick as he imagined an embalming fluid to be as it dripped down his back. A few times, the boys eyes twitched behind his lids and Greagoir tensed as if the slight movement were a provocation to kill.

Facial convulsions followed suit. The mage's freckled skin stretched over his shallow cheekbones as his mouth moved worldlessly. Then began the erratic breathing. The boy's back arched with every sharp breath in and then slammed back against the floor with each breath out. Greagoir's blade emerged from his side with a sharp sound and the elder templar stood poised to strike.

The boy jolted upright. He choked and sputtered. His breaths were panicked and sharp as if he had been submerged in water and had finally broke the surface. He lurched forward on his hands and vomited heavily. Pieces of sick spattered off the stone and across his mouth and caught in his choppy hair. He heaved dryly and shook all over. Finally, his gaze turned upward.

Those wild eyes. In them, Cullen saw oceans set ablaze. There was a moment of clarity, and the fiery swells seemed to grow still. The boy recognized his victory. Irving made a move to go to his side, but Greagoir lifted his blade to chest-level to hold the old man back. Irving scowled and almost looked as if he intended to walk straight through Greagoir's sword, but restrained himself.

The boy sat upright now. He looked to Greagoir, to Irving, to the other templars, but fell at last upon Cullen once more. They lingered there for a moment and then fluttered shut as the boy's head fell back against the floor.

Greagoir holstered his sword and strode over to the unconscious mage. He picked the hourglass up, turned it over in his hand, and paced to the front of the room. He turned around and regarded Irving and the templars. “The matter of the Amell harrowing is concluded. This apprentice has earned the right to forego tranquility and continue his studies as a mage of the Circle.”

Greagoir looked to Cullen before continuing. “See this mage back to the apprentice quarters and then return immediately to the barracks. Rest, and regain your strength for tomorrow the entourage will arrive from Ostwick, and every templar will stand ready to greet them.”


End file.
